The argument was still burning between them.

Hot.

Close.

Dangerously close.

Their breaths mixing, words sharp like knives, neither one willing to step back, neither one willing to lose.

She could still feel the heat of him, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand pressed against the desk behind her like a cage. One more sentence and one of them was going to snap.

Then—

BOOM.

A shotgun blast exploded somewhere downstairs. Not distant and not muffled either, but it was close, too close.

The sound ripped through the office like thunder.

Both of them froze, quickly alerted like predators snapping to attention.

Another blast.

Wood splintering. Men shouting. Boots running.

Damiano's entire body changed.

The anger vanished bring eplaced by something colder and professional.

He moved fast, grabbing his gun from inside his coat like it had always belonged in his hand.

"Behind me," he ordered.

She didn't move.

"No."

He shot her an incredulous look.

"Are you insane?"

"I can handle myself."

"You'd rather get killed?"

"Maybe I can be dinner instead of breakfast—" she said crossing her arms.

"You are—"

"What?" she snapped.

BOOM.

Closer. Right outside the corridor. Wood cracking. Someone screaming.

He grabbed her wrist and shoved her toward the shelves anyway.

"Stay there."

Not a suggestion.

A command that made her roll her eyes and cross her arms.

The door handle rattled violently. Metal shaking.

Then—

BANG.

The shotgun blasted through the lock.

Wood exploded inward making splinters flying. Smoke filling the doorway.

The first man stepped through.

Masked. Gun raised but too slow because Damiano fired once making a clean shot.

Very precise.

Right between the eyes.

The man dropped instantly. No hesitation. No panic.

Just calculation.

He stepped to the side of the door frame, pressing himself flat against the wall.

Smart.

Angle advantage.

No silhouette.

Force them to enter blind.

Good.

Camilla noticed automatically.

Professional assessment.

Good positioning. Minimal exposure. Efficient.

Second man rushed in.

Damiano grabbed his collar, pulled him forward—

BANG.

Shot to the throat.

Blood sprayed the wall.

Body down.

Third.

Fourth.

Two quick shots.

Two bodies.

He moved like he'd done this a thousand times.

Smooth.

Economical.

No wasted bullets.

No wasted movement.

Camilla watched from the shelves, heart pounding, mind racing.

Part of her wanted to help. Part of her wanted to stay invisible.

Part of her was analyzing every decision he made like it was a training video.

Footwork solid. Breathing steady. Minimal recoil.

Damn it.

He was good. Too good.

Another man burst in—

Bigger.

Faster.

Smarter.

Instead of shooting, he tackled.

They crashed into the desk.

Gun flying from Damiano's hand.

Skidding across the floor.

Out of reach.

They struggled.

Hard.

Brutal.

Pure strength.

The attacker slammed Damiano against the chair, twisting his arm back.

He forced him down into the chair. Pinned his shoulders.

One man grabbed the shotgun while smiling.

Camilla didn't move. Just watched.

The barrel pressed against Damiano's forehead.

"Boss will be so happy," the man laughed. "When he knows I killed you myself."

She watched Damiano. He wasn't begging. Wasn't panicking. Wasn't even struggling anymore.

Just staring at the guy.

Calm.

Almost bored.

Like death was just another inconvenience.

And for one awful second—

For a heartbeat that felt far too long, Camilla did nothing.

She stood there, pressed against the shelves, her body still, her breath shallow, watching the scene unfold in front of her with a strange, detached clarity.

Damiano was restrained now, forced back into the chair, his arms pinned, his weapon gone. The barrel of the shotgun rested against his forehead, close enough that she could see the faint tremor in the man's hand holding it, the excitement leaking through his grip. From where she stood, it looked finished. Too clean. Too final.

And the terrifying part was that she didn't move.

Her mind raced—not in panic, but in calculation. If he died, the house would fracture. The power vacuum would swallow everyone whole. The De Salvatore family would tear itself apart, and in the chaos, she could disappear. Her mission could still be completed another way. Dane could still get out. Nikolai would still fall eventually. Damiano dying here would solve things. Dangerous things. Personal things.

She watched his face, searching for fear.

There was none.

That unsettled her more than anything.

The man holding the gun laughed, loud and triumphant, drunk on the moment. "You know," he said, voice thick with satisfaction, "this wasn't even the mission. We were supposed to save the woman. But killing you?" He grinned wider. "That's better. That's money. That's promotion."

Damiano finally spoke.

Soft.

Calm.

Almost conversational.

"Greed," he said slowly, tilting his head just enough for the gun barrel to scrape his skin, "has always been a sin."

The man scoffed. "Still talking? You really want a sermon in your last seconds?"

Damiano's eyes flicked to his. Sharp. Focused. Alive.

"No," he replied quietly. "Yours."

The man frowned. "What—"

Everything happened at once.

Damiano moved with brutal precision, shoving upward and sideways, twisting just enough to throw the man off balance. The gun slipped, the angle broke, and in the same fluid motion Damiano ripped the weapon from his grasp. It was so fast it barely registered as movement—more like instinct made flesh. The attacker stumbled back, eyes wide in shock, just as Damiano brought the gun up, steady and unshaking.

Camilla froze.

Her mind struggled to catch up with what she had just seen.

It looked unreal. Like a scene lifted from a film she would've criticized for being too perfect. Too clean. Too impossible.

The man stared down the barrel now, breath hitching. "Wait—wait, we can—"

The office door burst open behind them.

"Capo," one of Damiano's men said sharply, scanning the room. "They're all dead."

Damiano didn't look away from the man in front of him. "Good," he said calmly. "Then I suppose you won't be seeing your boss today."

The man's bravado shattered instantly. He dropped to his knees, hands shaking, voice breaking as he begged, words tumbling over each other in desperation. Camilla flinched as Damiano fired—not a kill shot. The bullet tore through the man's shoulder instead, and the scream that followed was raw and animal, echoing off the walls.

"What the hell are you doing," Camilla thought distantly, her stomach twisting.

Damiano stepped closer, expression cold and controlled. "Get up," he ordered. "You're going to tell your boss exactly what I say. Word for word."

The man sobbed, nodding frantically.

"If he wants his woman back alive," Damiano continued, his voice deadly calm, "he comes himself. Or he gets on his knees and begs. Otherwise, he can send as many men as he wants. I will kill them one by one." He turned his head slightly then—just enough for his gaze to brush over Camilla's position. "And I will make her watch."

The man swallowed hard, eyes darting to her, terror blooming in his expression. He nodded again, barely able to stand.

"Go," Damiano said.

They let him leave.

Damiano's voice carried down the corridor in sharp, rapid Italian, clipped orders thrown like knives. Camilla didn't understand every word, but she understood enough—the doubling of guards, the cars repositioned, men moved from the outer gates to the inner paths, eyes everywhere. He was sealing the house not to keep things out, but to make sure whatever came next had nowhere to hide.

She stayed where she was.

Her legs felt heavy, like the adrenaline had finally drained out of them all at once, leaving behind that hollow, trembling aftermath. The office smelled of gunpowder and blood, the silence stretching in a way that felt unreal after the chaos. Her hands were still shaking, though she kept them clenched at her sides, refusing to look at them.

Footsteps rushed toward her.

Fast. Familiar.

She turned just as Dane appeared in the doorway.

His face was pale, eyes wide, scanning her from head to toe like he expected to find blood somewhere he'd missed. He crossed the distance between them in two strides, hands hovering, not touching yet—like he was afraid she might disappear if he did.

"Are you okay?" he asked, voice tight. "Are you hurt? Did they—"

"I'm fine," she said quickly, too quickly. "I'm fine."

He didn't believe her.

Of course he didn't.

His gaze softened in that way she remembered too well, the way it always had when things went wrong and he couldn't fix them. He lifted a hand, slow, hesitant, as if asking permission without words, his fingers hovering near her cheek. "Cam—" he stopped himself, swallowed. "I can't keep watching this. I can't keep watching you be in danger like this."

For a second, everything else faded.

The office. The bodies. The war outside these walls.

It was just the two of them again, standing too close, memories pressing in from three years ago—nights spent planning missions that never went the way they were supposed to, mornings waking up knowing one of them might not come back. They had never really chosen to end. It had been decided for them, orders handed down, paths forced apart.

She felt it then—that pull. That instinct to lean into something familiar, something safe.

And that was exactly why she stepped back.

The movement was sharp enough to break the moment clean in half.

"We can't," she said, quietly but firmly. "Not here. Not now."

Dane froze, his hand dropping slowly. Hurt flashed across his face before he masked it, jaw tightening as he nodded once. "Right. Of course."

They stood there, breathing the same air, both painfully aware of everything they weren't saying. Of everything they still were to each other, no matter how hard they pretended otherwise. He looked at her like he wanted to say a hundred things—apologies, promises, fears—but none of them belonged in this place.

Before either of them could speak again, footsteps approached from behind.

He didn't need to turn to know who it was.

Damiano's presence filled the room before his voice did.

"Everything ok here?"

"Yes," he said shortly, more to the room than to her. "Everything is under control, sir."

Then he looked at her fully, pointed once, decisively. "You. Come with me."

She rolled her eyes, exhaustion and adrenaline tangling together, and followed without a word.